


you will not rob me of my birthright

by Dialux



Series: gentle mother, strength of women [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, F/F, F/M, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:02:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9935585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: [a tribute to dornish women; sainted, besmirched, or misunderstood]Doran went still in a temper; cold, steady as the mountain passes in the moments before lightning struck. Oberyn raged, louder than any storm.Elia smiled, thin and small, and struck.





	

The sun wasn’t shining when Elia was born. 

This, the people claimed, years later, was a symbol; a sign from the gods: Elia Martell’s life was never anything but a tragedy, never anything but a thing to whisper on dark nights, fearful nights, of what happened to those princesses who were unlucky.

Wait. Step back. 

Look again.

Elia came into the world on the day of an eclipse, skin dark as a roasted chestnut, squalling, bloody. She was a month early, and always impatient for it. She was the first daughter of a woman who ruled Dorne, and Elia had that right, that crown, hewn down deep in her bone and muscle.

It wasn’t bad luck that killed her- though it was, slightly, partially; but Elia believed in only three things in her life, and luck wasn’t one of them.

…

She was quiet, and knew how to use it. Silence isn’t meekness, not in a girl raised with a crown in her palms and two brothers to love beside her. 

Or, at the least: not in this girl.

…

Elia loved Oberyn, loved him to delirium. When she remembered her brother, she remembered sticky summer days in the Water Gardens; the taste of oranges heavy on her tongue; the same sort of shocked, sharp pain that came when she cut her tongue on a blade. 

(To be perfectly fair, that particular incident was a result of Oberyn daring Elia.)

Most of Elia’s foolishness could be ascribed to Oberyn, in fact, or that was how everyone remembered it; people tended to forget, because Elia coughed easy, because Elia had large eyes and thick hair and a way of tipping her head to the side, all innocence-incarnate- people tended to forget that Elia had mischief thrumming through her veins, and only half of it was because Oberyn prodded her into it.

…

Ashara Dayne was-  _ interesting. _

Large purple eyes, with the height that Daynes were known for; Ashara was vivacious, brilliant, unapologetically bold. Elia was at once simultaneously envious and awed.

She came to the Water Gardens when Elia was fifteen, old enough that she did most of the governing around the palace herself. Sums came easy to her, and so did the kind of voice that made grown men bend their heads. If nothing else, Elia simply held a kerchief to her face and let her shoulders shake; Oberyn always stepped in, then, to handle it.

But Ashara didn’t flinch when Elia got flustered and brandished the square of silk as if it were a shield. She only grinned, sharp and bloody, and leaned forwards.

“You’re not half so delicate as you want yourself to be,” she said, eyes glowing like lanterns, like lightning. “The day you accept that, Princess, is the day the world’ll shake open.”

…

They kissed, a month later, under the large palm trees. The sun was hot enough to leave Ashara’s pale skin peeling, pink and angry; Elia breathed in, breathed out, swallowed Ashara’s gasps with her mouth and twisted to get deeper.

When they separated, Ashara’s mouth was red, kiss-swollen. Her eyes were over-large in her narrow, pale face.

“I told you so,” she panted, and Elia felt her lips twitch into a smile.

“Told me what?”

“The world’s going to shake if you keep doing that,” Ashara said, and stepped closer, wound a finger in one of Elia’s curls. “You ought to show off this part of yourself more.”

Elia let her smile widen, teeth sharp against her tongue, against her lips. “I like to keep some parts of myself private.”

“Continue to kiss me and you can do anything you want,” said Ashara, and they didn’t talk after that.

…

The marriage to the Westerlands- to Jaime Lannister- hadn’t been something that her mother had expected, entirely; after Joanna’s death, Tywin Lannister had been acting more and more unpredictable. 

But, still- marrying Elia off to a second son of a man so proud as Tywin Lannister? Marrying her to a babe just born?

She was a princess in her own right, and so would her children be. Arianne didn’t so much as wait for sundown before telling Elia and Oberyn that they would leave. On the ship, Oberyn raged; Elia only sighed, laying her head on his shoulder.

“I’m glad enough to stay home,” she told him. 

“They  _ insulted  _ you.”

“Yes,” said Elia. “They were rather foolish about that, weren’t they? But an insult is only one that stings when I take it as one. And I’d much sooner be in the Water Gardens with you and Doran and Mother than anywhere else.” Her smile was small, thin, bladed. 

Oberyn bent over her hands, pressed his forehead to the curve where her wrist flared out to meet her thumb. “They don’t see you,” he whispered.

_ Neither do you,  _ thought Elia, but she only pulled her hands away from him gently. 

“I will not spend any time mourning that people whom I don’t care about cannot  _ see  _ me,” she declared, firmly. “I do not believe in any of the Lannisters, Oberyn, and I could not care less for them. Let us spend our time on better people, and better times.”

…

Elia arrived at the Water Gardens a few days after their ship arrived in Dorne. 

Ashara kissed her almost as soon as they were in her rooms, crowding her against the wall, hotly, long enough that Elia felt like she was drowning. She pulled away, a little, and Elia doubled over in great, racking breaths.

Slowly, the world returned to her- Ashara was bent over her, white-faced and worried.

“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Elia waved it away impatiently. “You didn’t. Just- next time that I push you, take a step back, alright?”

Ashara bit her lip. “Elia,” she said.

It was hesitant. There was something like pity in Ashara’s lovely eyes, and Elia felt something hot and heady unfurl down her spine in response. She wasn’t the loud one, however, so she only tossed her hair back, clasped her hands together, and said, magnificently scornful: “If you’re going to pity me, you can go back to Starfall right now.”

“I don’t want to hurt you!” Ashara snapped.

“You won’t,” Elia bit out. “You said it yourself:  _ the world will shake.  _ Did you mean that, or did you just want to get your hands all over a Martell Princess?”

“You  _ are  _ strong,” said Ashara, eyes rolling. “You rule over the Water Gardens all by yourself, and you don’t let anyone hurt you, and you’re as unbending and prideful as your brother on his worst day! That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then what was it?”

“That maybe I shouldn’t-”

_ “I  _ will tell you what I can or cannot do with my body,” said Elia. “We will learn. We will find ways to do what we wish to do. But the only reason we will stop is if you decide that you pity me.”

Slowly, Ashara tipped her head forwards; and then she said, smiling, “Fine, then. I’ll swear to that, Princess: I’ll never pity you. Not even on my deathbed.”

…

Was that a prophecy?

Well- Elia believed in only three things in her life, and prophecy wasn’t one of them.

…

“This cannot continue,” Doran told her.

Elia blinked. “What cannot continue?”

“Your- affair.” Her elder brother, her lovely, protective, distant brother- he flushed under Elia’s quizzical look. “With Ashara Dayne. You know that you are to marry outside of Dorne, Elia.”

“And the other kingdoms shall look down on me for having loved another woman?” Elia asked, beesting sharp. “I think they already do for my womb. I think there is nothing I can do to gain their love, so why should I-”

“I only wish not to see you with a broken heart,” said Doran.

Elia bit her tongue instead of answering tartly. If anyone in their family was going to have a broken heart, it would be Oberyn; the boy had already approached and been rebuffed by three noblewomen, and he’d sulked around the palace for almost a fortnight before letting it go. Elia, who’d only ever kissed Dagos Manwoody before Ashara, couldn’t fathom Doran’s words.

And yet- Oberyn wouldn’t leave Dorne. Elia would. 

“If I am to leave Dorne,” Elia said quietly, “then I shall not go without Ashara. I promise you, Doran: you shall never see my broken heart.”

_ Because,  _ thought Elia, smiling, close-lipped, gentle-toothed,  _ I will not let it break. _

…

Rhaegar was a handsome man, as everyone said.

He was, also, a man who never looked at what he saw; a man who refused to smile when he could frown; a man who couldn’t appreciate beauty without bemoaning its sadness.

(Elia was sure that the only reason Rhaegar consented to marry her was the way her collarbone looked, in the cold winter sunlight- all bird-beak sharp, all cut-glass fragile. He only ever looked at her and saw something to mourn in her sickness.

Say what you would about him; Elia had nothing but contempt for her husband.)

He came to Dorne, after their betrothal was finalized by a mad King Aerys and an ailing Queen. Elia waited for him on the steps of the Water Gardens, and offered up the softest smile she could when he pressed his lips to the back of her palm.

That afternoon, Elia kissed Ashara breathless back in her rooms. Her palms, delicate, sugar-spun, fragile bones- they spanned Ashara’s shoulders, dug deep, yanked her close.

“I don’t want him,” said Elia, passionately. “I’ll never want him. I’d spend the rest of my days here, with you, if I could.”

Ashara tipped her head back and made a mush-mouthed noise when Elia nipped at her sharp jaw. “You can’t, though.”

Elia pulled away; Ashara looked at her, eyes large and dark, dotted with tears like a star-strewn sky. 

“You’ll leave,” she said, breathlessly. 

“Yes,” said Elia. “But I’ll take you with me.”

…

There were three things that Elia Nymeros Martell believed in, and three things alone:

First, in Oberyn’s temper, which raged truer than any flame. There was something honest in Oberyn, something that neither Doran nor she had. Second, in her own weakness; or, at the least, that the world would only ever see that sickness first, before anything else.

But last: Elia Martell believed, in every fiber of her being, down to the last cell, in Ashara Dayne’s love.

…

Of the three children of House Martell, Doran went still in a temper; cold, steady as the mountain passes in the moments before lightning struck. Oberyn raged, louder than any storm.

Elia smiled, thin and small, and struck.

…

And so: when she went to King’s Landing, Elia took Ashara with her.

…

People took notice at her wedding feast, hissing under their breath when Ashara knocked her goblet against Elia’s, a too-wide smile across her lovely features. Rhaegar didn’t, because he was  _ Rhaegar-  _ but Elia could see the disgust in the courtiers’ faces when Ashara dipped too close. They would question it soon enough, if they hadn’t begun already.

Elia felt the weight of Aerys’ gaze heavy across the back of her neck, and she refused to shudder.

Slowly, she leaned forwards and caught Ashara’s hand, trapping it flat against the table. She could feel the rabbitish flutter of Ashara’s pulse in the tips of her fingers.

“You ought to dance,” said Elia, and for all that it was quiet, it brooked no argument. 

“I don’t  _ want-”  _

“You do,” Elia said, low, fierce. “If you wish to stay here, you do. Now go and pick any partner that you wish for. But if you stay in that seat, then you will not stay in King’s Landing.”

Ashara’s eyes flashed with purple fire. Elia removed her hand and straightened, smiling serenely out at the world, as if she hadn’t just told her dearest friend, her lover, to leave.

And then, Ashara yanked herself out of her chair and grabbed the nearest lord- the poor boy went along with it, dancing when Ashara dragged him over to the dance floor; trying to offer her his arm gallantly; but Ashara only sneered, ignoring him and instead flinging herself almost recklessly into the next dance, movements ferociously wrathful.

Elia only smiled, and sipped her wine, and four days later, kissed Ashara in the gardens, scattering rose petals about them.

…

Arthur confronted her about it two months later.

“She is my sister,” he said, hissed, when Elia was alone with him. “She is my sister, and she deserves better than to be the cast-offs of a woman without enough honor to stop something she knows to be foolish in a multitude of ways!”

“Ashara is a woman grown,” said Elia, mildly. “If she wishes to leave, then she shall- and I would not dream of stopping her.”

Arthur was a knight in the fashion of a star, cool and distant and blazing all the same. For him, duty was paramount; he couldn’t fathom a life worth anything without it. To Elia, for whom duty came far distant to family, to  _ pride-  _ he was a fool.

“If I told her to leave, she would go?” He looked doubtful.

“Well, no,” said Elia. “But that is because she wishes to stay beside me.” Deliberately, she softened her tone. “Ashara is not anyone’s leavings. Doubt my honor if you wish, Ser Arthur, but do not doubt her pride.”

Arthur’s famed purple eyes were measuring as he stepped away, sliding once more into his role of a Kingsguard. 

“Ashara’s never been half so proud as she shows,” he said. “No; if there’s anyone here with enough pride to name prideful, it is  _ you.” _

…

Her first birth was a difficult one, a labor in which Elia almost bled out thrice and only survived by pure luck. When she heard that it was a girl, Elia first thought wasn’t,  _ I’ve failed,  _ or  _ there must be another then,  _ or even  _ gods above- _

Elia smiled wide, heart cracking open, tears staining her face, and she thought,  _ the next person to sit the Iron Throne shall be a girl from Dorne. _

It was only when she saw her husband standing, feet braced apart, shoulders stiff, that she realized- no one would accept a woman on the Iron Throne. She flicked her hair away from her face and demanded, silently, vengefully, that Rhaegar love this child any less than others that he’d bear. 

Let him try. 

Elia would shred him open with knives hot as the sun’s own fire if he dared.

…

Rhaegar, in his own fashion, loved them all equally- that is to say, he loved none of them. Or if he did love them, it was distant, cold, uninterested.

Elia never could find it in herself to forgive that.

…

The news of her mother’s death came only a scarce few hours before Elia was to present Rhaenys to the King and Queen. Rhaegar made some consoling, half-meant sounds; Elia brushed him aside and kept her jaw tight when they entered the throne room. Ashara strode behind her, a pale, thin-lipped shadow.

Rhaella embraced Elia, tight as her own mother would, when Elia presented little Rhaenys, but Aerys- his long white hair hung in unwashed strands about his sharp-jawed face, and there was contempt written across the features.

“She smells Dornish,” he sneered.

Elia felt everything inside of her condense into a single scathing, seething moment. Had she not had Ashara behind her, or Rhaenys in her arms, she might well have tried to claw the king’s face bloody. As it was, she only cradled her daughter closer.

“Your Grace,” she said, cold, flat, empty. Her hands itched for a silk square to brandish, but all she had was her little daughter. “I find I cannot stand for over-long; I’m still not quite recovered from the birth.”

Her muscles trembled when she arrived in her rooms. It wasn’t entirely out of exhaustion, either; mostly, it was just anger. Ashara took Rhaenys from her, carefully.

“You must be careful,” she said. “He is the king.”

“Nobody else noticed me,” said Elia. Nobody had so much as recognized the rage thrumming under her breastbone, hot and sickening. “They see dark skin, and even if they look past that, all they see is my sickness. They name me my mother’s god-weak daughter, or a whorish princess of Dorne, or a gentle lady- I am  _ tired  _ of it.” Her hands twitched towards a lamp, but then she folded them together. “I am sick of this foolish land.”

_ I want my mother. _

“Your children will sit the Iron Throne,” Ashara replied. Elia shuddered, and Ashara’s eyes were very gentle when she said, “It is little enough of a kindness, perhaps, but it is as close as you have. But I swore to you once: I’ll never pity you. And I’ll swear another oath, Elia: I’ll always be there for you. Whatever happens.”

…

That, of course, was Elia’s tragedy- everyone always swore their vows to her.

(That didn’t mean that they kept them.)

…

Elia hadn’t precisely expected her husband to name her the Queen of Love and Beauty, but she hadn’t expected him to crown anyone, really; when he placed the blue roses on Lyanna Stark’s head, Ashara’s hand clamped tight on Elia’s arm, bruisingly tight, but Elia only lifted her chin proudly and kept herself very still.

“I’ll kill him,” Ashara snarled, loud enough to be heard outside of their tent. 

“You will not,” said Oberyn. “I will rend him limb from limb first, so-”

“-if you wish to contemplate treason, you shall do it outside.” Elia folded her arms over her chest. “And know that I will not mourn either of you if the king decides to take your heads for the insult.”

Oberyn glared at her. “Aren’t you angry?”

“Incandescently so,” said Elia dryly. 

_ “Elia.” _

“What is the point?” She demanded, voice sharpening. “He is the crown prince. He is a Targaryen. Rhaegar answers to none but his own sense of self-importance and prophecy, and there is nothing you can do to change that. It was humiliating, yes, to see him place the crown on Lyanna Stark’s head; but she is of little consequence in the larger scheme of things. I am his  _ wife.” _

“So you want us to do nothing?” Ashara asked.

“My children will sit the Iron Throne,” said Elia. “I want you to see that, not get your heads chopped off by King Aerys in a useless attempt to save my honor.”

Ashara bared her teeth. “I won’t go after him, then, but you can’t stop me from talking with Arthur.”

Later that night, Ashara danced; with Arthur, and Oberyn, and after some time- with Jon Connington, and then the second Stark boy. She sank into the chair beside Elia, face damp and sweaty, a broad smile across it.

“Having fun?” Elia asked.

“Of course,” said Ashara. “The boy- Eddard Stark-  _ gods  _ I had a hard time keeping a straight face while we danced.” Her eyes sparkled when she cut a look over to Elia. “He’s handsome though, isn’t he?”

“Not quite your usual fare.” Elia hid her smile behind the rim of her cup. “I rather think their blood is far too thick for your liking.”

“He’s far kinder than  _ you,”  _ Ashara replied. 

“You’ve known him for all of an hour.”

“I’m a good judge of character!”

Elia sent her a disbelieving look. “You thought I was the mischievous one, and that Doran was the angry one, and that Ser Barristan was just very devoted to his duty in the Kingsguard-”

“You  _ are  _ mischievous,” said Ashara. “Doran holds to his anger far more than Oberyn, and is far more dangerous when roused. And the Barristan thing was a misunderstanding!”

“A misunderstanding,” Elia repeated. “Was that all it was?”

When Ashara just sputtered, her face flushing a deep, unflattering shade of red- Elia threw her head back and laughed.

…

People named her life a tragedy, a warning to whisper on stormy nights of what happened to unlucky princesses, to pitiful highborn women. Elia called herself the trueblooded descendant of Nymeria, a woman who led her people from certain slavery to freedom. Elia embraced Rhaenys, embraced Ashara, laughed until her lungs ached.

If this were her last day to live, then Elia would die hard.

She’d die as she’d lived.

…

“If I die,” said Rhaella, eyes large and purple and lovely, just three shades lighter than Ashara’s, “then you must care for Viserys. Rhaegar won’t be around, not for long; and Aerys is… not suitable.”

“I shall do what I can,” said Elia, laying a hand against Rhaella’s. 

Aegon was a warm weight in her arms, and Rhaenys was toddling around the gardens. It was a nice day, not overly hot or bright. Rhaella had asked Elia to join on a walk in the gardens, and she’d seated herself in one of the secluded benches. It was as close to privacy as they could come.

The queen was gentle, soft, calm. She was lovely, as well, with the quiet dignity of a martyr resigned to their fate. Elia couldn’t imagine ever being in such a place- with no one to trust, nobody to love, only a distant son and a mad husband and a cold crown on her brow.

Even now- Elia’s hand brushed Rhaella’s wrist, and there was the faint shadow of bruises along the pale skin. At least Rhaegar had never hit her. Oberyn would’ve lopped his head off where he stood, and then the continent would’ve broken out in war.

“I swear it,” she whispered, a princess to a queen, one woman to another, one innocent pawn caught up in a web spanning far too large for anyone to feel safe- to the mirror that showed what might happen to her in the years to come. “I will do everything in my power.”

…

Rhaegar died at the Trident, and Aerys sent Rhaella to Dragonstone with Viserys. Elia wished she could say she mourned her husband, but she didn’t. She wept more for her uncle than for her husband, and despaired far more than grieved their deaths.

“You must leave,” she told Ashara. 

“I promised not to leave you,” Ashara replied, not looking up from her embroidery.

Elia dropped to her knees and caught Ashara’s hand, uncaring when the thread snarled. 

(When Gregor Clegane pressed his meaty hands against her throat, Elia had bruises on her knees. That ache was one of the last things she felt.)

_ “Look  _ at me,” she said. “No- see- you fell in love with Brandon Stark. You slept with him, at Harrenhal, and now you’re pregnant. That’s what we’ll tell everyone.” Her hands trembled, finely, but hope and fear was clawing at the insides of her throat. “You must go home, Ashara. You’ll be safe in Starfall.”

“I’m not  _ leaving,”  _ said Ashara, eyes flaring eldritch purple. “I will not leave you, Elia-”

“If you can take Rhaenys and Aegon,” said Elia, heart hurting. “Would you do it then?”

Ashara’s face twisted as if someone had emptied her lungs of air. But she loved Elia’s children as dearly as if they were her own, and Elia knew exactly what she was asking of her. 

“When?” Ashara asked, and Elia smiled through the tears welling in her eyes. 

“Tonight,” she said.

…

Before dawn the next morning, two guards entered Elia’s chambers and told her that the king was demanding her presence. Elia dressed quickly; when she entered the throne room, her heart dropped away at the sight before her.

Ashara, with a sleeping Aegon and Rhaenys in her arms. Her eyes held no laughter in them, for once in her life; just fierce defiance.

“My King,” said Elia, sweeping a curtsy.

Aerys’ lips thinned in displeasure. “You thought that you would defy me?” He asked coldly. “After I told you that you would stay here. Did you think to run off into the night, like all you Dornish cowards?”

“I wouldn’t think of defying you,” Elia said, folding her arms over her chest, digging the edges of her nails into her elbow until it stung. Her chest ached, but she stood straight, stiff, as close to her mother’s daughter as she could be. “I am a loyal supporter, your Grace.”

“I don’t think you are,” he snapped.

Elia could still smell the stink of burned flesh in the room. Rickard and Brandon Stark had died here. With a touch of horror, she realized that Ashara was standing in the same place as them.

_ No,  _ she thought.  _ You will not end here. I will not let you. _

“I sent Lady Ashara away because she has shamed me,” said Elia, the words dropping from her mouth like cold stones. “She has lain with a man, and carries his child. I asked her for the father, and she refused to speak it- she is banished to Starfall until she gives it up. Taking Rhaenys and Aegon was not of my will.”

Ashara’s eyes widened, and Elia turned away.

“I will have my own guards accompany her to Starfall,” Elia announced. “Rhaenys and Aegon shall stay here as long as it is your will, your Grace.”

Aerys’ interest had dropped as soon as Elia mentioned the gossip- as she’d hoped. He’d never had much interest in such women’s business, as he termed it.

“Very well,” he said, waving his hand, and Elia gathered her children up and looked behind her- Ashara was being escorted out of the room, mouth still open, twisting to catch Elia’s gaze. 

The captain of her guard looked at her. “I do not wish to leave you,” he rumbled.

“You must do as I promised,” replied Elia, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “I am safe enough here, I know it. Take Lady Ashara to Starfall, and make it back as quickly as you can.”

The man’s eyes were dark, and there was something in his features that reminded Elia of Doran. It made something prick in her chest uncomfortably.

“If it comes down to it,” he said abruptly, pressing something cold into her palm, “take this. Promise me, Princess. In the end- if your guards aren’t enough. So you won’t feel any pain.”

“Death of poison isn’t an honorable death,” said Elia.

“It is a quiet one,” he replied. “Promise me, Princess.”

Slowly, Elia nodded. “Very well. If it comes down to it- but it won’t. You shall be here soon enough, to protect me, I know it. Ride hard and ride true, Captain.” He bowed, and had almost left, when she stopped him. “I would be grateful-” she swallowed, hesitating, and then said, softly, “-if you could tell Lady Ashara that I don’t blame her. And that we shall see each other soon.”

He smiled, and nodded, and left, leaving Elia all alone with two children in her arms.

…

(When they arrived at Starfall, the rooms were draped in black.

“Why?” Ashara asked stupidly, and Allyria stepped forwards, drew her into an embrace.

When Ashara threw herself off the tallest tower of Starfall, the Palestone Sword, weeks later, it was due to a drowning sort of grief. 

Her brother was dead, yes. So was a babe that Ashara had loved with all her heart, and a child that deserved all the warmth of the world. So was a woman Ashara had loved long enough that she didn’t remember a way to not love her.

Ashara left a note before she leapt- she wrote, simply:

_ I told her we’d always be together, whatever happens. _

_ I love you,  _ she thought, and jumped, and when the waters swallowed her she didn’t feel any pain.)

…

Elia was born unlucky. She was lucky to be born. 

But in the end she took what was given to her and didn’t let go. She wrestled down chest-aches and brandished a silk square as if it was a shield. Her eyes glowed, bright, brilliant, outshining each of the stars to make everything else fade away, blazing as the sun.

Elia was loved, too, for her silences, for her gentleness; for the mischief she’d escaped scoldings from with a flutter of her long lashes. All of Dorne hung black banners about their homes and sung songs praising her kindnesses.

(One man- he’d been a captain, once, and a father after. When the anniversary of Princess Elia’s death came around, everyone raised a cup to her in the taverns, and cried  _ to Princess Elia the kind, the gentle, the good-hearted- _

This man raised his cup and remembered the way her fingers wrapped around a vial of poison. He remembered the warmth of her hand when she told him to leave her in King’s Landing. But more than anything, he remembered a Princess of Dorne with sun-dark skin and hair the color of the sky in an eclipse, standing in a room against Mad King Aerys without flinching.

_ To Elia,  _ he didn’t say.  _ To Elia, the queen without a crown.) _

…

When the Lannisters stormed King’s Landing, when the screams started to echo, Elia ducked her head and tried not to sob. Her hands shook, and she held Aegon too close, too tight. The vial her captain had given her was in her sleeves, and she only fumbled it a little when she drew it out.

_ An adult is twice a child.  _ She sank to her knees, and didn’t wince at the bruises already there.  _ This poison is enough for me, and enough for you both.  _

_ I cannot offer you anything more than a painless death. _

“I am sorry,” she whispered, croaking it out to Rhaenys- who had sunny eyes and a lift to her cheeks that was all Doran’s, a bright-eyed wonder that was all Oberyn, who deserved to  _ live-  _ but that wasn’t possible, and so Elia drew her daughter close to her and pressed poison to her lips.

Half to Rhaenys, and then half to Aegon. The vial felt impossibly lighter when she dropped it, and felt the footsteps shaking the ground under her hands. Elia could see the sleepy confusion in Rhaenys’ face, and she nudged her away, towards the stairs that led to her bedchamber. She placed Aegon behind her, and straightened when the door shuddered.

…

Elia didn’t believe in gods or prophecy or anything that wasn’t her brother’s rage, her lover’s love, her own weakness. She laughed at her husband’s belief when he wasn’t looking, because how could anyone believe in something so intangible? Elia had the proof of each of the things she trusted in, had them carved down into her sinew.

And, of course, she was- she was brave.

Not as many might imagine; she had her faults- a temper, pride, contempt. But Elia was brave in the fashion of a person whose every morning ached, but rose nonetheless to marvel at the dawn. 

It takes bravery, courage, and the same sort of foolish bravado that Oberyn would show years later, after all, to try to throttle a man who just killed your son. 

See: when Gregor Clegane broke down the door, he killed a boy who was already dead. When he turned to Elia, she marked him: along his neck, for the rest of his life, Gregor wore a pale white scar from Elia’s nails.

…

She was forgotten, she was mourned, she was loved.

She was unlucky and lucky by turns. Her death was terrible. Her sacrifices were innumerable. But Elia was  _ alive,  _ for however short a time before that, viciously, undeniably, deliberately alive- and that, in the end, is something to celebrate.


End file.
